Alea iacta est
by irnan
Summary: Sam and poker have an uneasy relationship, at best.


_This is a disclaimer._

_**AN: **For apgeeksout's bday. Hey, look. The prompt was "Late season one, the boys, and poker". You never said anything about "no crazy allowed"._

**Alea iacta est**

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. He should have been paying attention, and he wasn't, and now the world's about to end, because when Dad hears about this, he will go spare. It's Sam's fault, because he was still on this kind of high-thing from kissing Sarah last week, too busy remembering the taste of her and the feel of her hands in his hair to keep Dean out of trouble, and now he's about to pay the price of that.

"So, that's a deal?" Dean says.

I do not understand why this means so much to you, his opponent replies.

Dean's face hardens, a little. "She's my friend's daughter."

Traditionally, I'm only allowed to do this for lovers.

"I don't hold with traditions."

Then you are a fool.

"I'm a fool who's about to whip your ass at poker," Dean replies, and Sam gropes for the whiskey bottle.

*********

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. He used the last of their ready cash buying himself a Salman Rushdie novel, and now Dean's sitting in a bar at a table with a bunch of murderous rednecks, cards in one hand and the other clenched around a whiskey glass, face set and determined.

If Dean looses, they're screwed, and if he wins, they'll die in here, and it's all Sam's fault, and he's so sorry, he wasn't thinking, hell he'd read the damn thing before, at college, but he was bored and fed up and why doesn't he have a Tardis he could use to fix all this?

Dean takes a drink, slow and easy, and relaxes, a little. "So, gentlemen. Who's going first?"

*********

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. There was dinner and drinking and a game of pool and more drinking and now he and Dean are playing poker, back at the motel, in a twisted-up version of 'I never' that will get Sam killed, because he has secrets and he has secrets, and he's so fucking smashed that any minute now one of the latter will come tumbling out of his mouth and ruin everything, forever.

Dean's biting down on his lower lip as he deals the cards, brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn't usually play poker when he's drunk. Hell, he doesn't usually get this drunk. Sam has been watching his brother for years, and while Dean likes to look drunk sometimes, he's always been a great believer in that old saying of Dad's that you should never get drunk unless you've got a bloody good reason to.

Sam remembers, at sixteen, asking Dad what a good reason for getting drunk might be, and Dad had looked at him, long and level.

"The question you wanna ask yourself, Sammy," he'd replied at last, "is whether you'd rather live and remember or forget and die."

Sam thinks, as he takes the cards from the bed, as his fingers brush against Dean's, a warm light touch that Sam's too slow to avoid and too drunk to ignore, that Dad got it totally wrong. Getting drunk doesn't mean forgetting and dying. Getting drunk means _remembering_ and dying.

*********

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. He should have taken the shot when Dad told him to, shouldn't have hesitated, should have been as ruthless and determined as Dad himself. But he didn't, and now they're here.

"Well, we haven't been arrested yet," Dean says, shifting in the hospital bed.

"It's only a matter of time if you ask me," Dad says. "It's obvious we didn't get all our injuries in the car crash."

"You couldn't possibly be more pessimistic about this, could you?" Sam says. "Or louder. Jeez. I'm concussed, you know."

"You've spent the last ten years in a near-permanent state of concussion," Dad tells him. "Remember Wichita? Or Oklahoma?"

"I was a kid," Sam says in a voice caught between indignation and long-suffering exasperation.

"A kid with a knack for getting hit on the head," Dad says. "You gonna come play, or would you rather sulk?"

Sam staggers to his feet with a groan and drags the chair over to Dean's bed. His brother looks like a crazed patient that's broken out of the insane asylum with half his hair shaved off, but thanks God the operation went well. Dean's still pale, still weak, and will never have the same dexterity in his left hand as he once did, but he'll be out of that bed by the end of the month, and as far as John and Sam are concerned, that's all that matters.

The Winchesters play poker while the hospital quiets around them, night drawing in, and shadows move in the dark.

*********

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. He should never have let slip to Michael that Dean can play poker like no one else. Joanna is still at the hospital, and Michael absolutely refused to be left alone while they went out to burn the Shtriga, so Sam bundles the body into the Impala and takes off to do it while Dean stays with the kid.

When he gets back, Dean is teaching Michael to play poker for M&M's, and Joanna, if and when she finds out about her oldest son's new skill, will probably hunt Sam down and kill him for not being there to prevent the kid acquiring it in the first place.

*********

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. He bought the deck states and states ago, so he could play Patience every now and again, but it must have fallen out of his bag or something. It's gotta be his deck, because Dean keeps his own in the Impala, and Sam's been out all night trailing a demon who's in Chicago because this place is really Daeva-friendly and the neighbours don't mind if they get a little loud at feeding time.

And now he's back in the motel room and Dean is playing poker with Sam's frigging deck of cards.

His opponent stands up with a scrape of chair and a toss of blonde curls that's heart-wrenchingly familiar, and Sam wants to drop everything and just run to her, but he's twenty-two now and there's a chasm between them that he's forgotten how to bridge, if he ever knew in the first place.

"Hey, Sammy," Mary Winchester says, smiling a little. The scar at her temple is pale against her tan, and she's pressing a thumb against her wedding ring like she always does when she's nervous or worried. It took Sam such a long time to pick up on that habit, because his Mom did not, ever, get nervous or worried. Ever.

He clears his throat. Behind her, Dean looks almost... afraid. Sam doesn't need to ask what of.

"Hey, Mom," he says. "I think we've got a lead on the thing that killed Dad."

*********

It's Sam's fault. He's man enough to admit that. He let his guard down, just the tiniest bit, and Jess was on him like a striking snake, and then Sam was spilling his guts about how, exactly, Dean manages to finance their lifestyle, and now she's kicking his brother's ass at poker in the middle of a crowded dive outside of Fitchburg.

Days like these, Sam really wishes he smoked.

On the other hand, the crowd is enjoying it, and Jess' face is lit up in a way it hasn't been for months now, all flushed and amused and happy that finally, finally, she gets to do something other than lie around and poke at her scars and feel useless, and Dean looks...

Well, he looks pissed that he's losing, obviously, but he also looks...

He looks like he's glad that she's there and they're doing this, and when he glances over and catches Sam's eye, there's a hint of a wry grin on his face, amused and sarcastic and even content. Content to be here; content to live like this.

Sam looks from his brother's face to his girlfriend's and thinks maybe he can put up with the poker thing for a little longer.


End file.
